Watson and the Sound
by miss-bagel
Summary: There was a sound that night.  That must have been what woke John Watson up.  But a simple investigation plunges John into a world of impossible things.  Is John Watson going mad?  Takes place sometime in Season 1.  Has short chapters!
1. Chapter 1

The sound came from downstairs. A muffled voice croaking. John blinked, staring up at the ceiling of the flat's second bedroom. He lay there, waiting. Sherlock did keep rather odd hours, and did rather odd things, but this sounded different. This sounded wrong.

The unsettling noise came again, this time louder, more urgent. John sighed and swung his legs over, sitting up sleepily. "Sherlock?" he said loudly. Maybe it was him. Maybe it wasn't anything to worry about - scratch that. If Sherlock was involved, there was a high probability of it being something to worry about.

John stood up and made his way to the top of the stairs, his bare feet cold against the flooring. He looked downstairs. "Sherlock?" he said again, his voice a bit more irritated now. "Sherlock, I've told you before, I don't want you practicing your escape techniques at night anymore."

The air was still and cool. And silent. Until a third muffled sound broke the silence, and John's patience.

"Alright, coming down now," he mumbled, going down the stairs. "That better not be you, Sherlock."

If only it had been.


	2. Chapter 2

John grumbled as he staggered down the stairs. He scratched his head as he neared the main floor, the muffled screaming barely keeping him awake. He was so tired. And so sleepy…

He grabbed onto the railing, catching himself. He had been both falling and falling asleep. He shook his head, trying to shake the sleep from his eyes, his eyelids drooping along with his head.

_There had been something he was supposed to remember…_

He shook awake again, finally standing on the main floor. He looked around, slightly confused. The air was silent once more. And, once more, that silence was broken.

He turned towards the kitchen. The sound, whatever it was, was definitely coming from there. John walked towards the area, the screaming, although intermittent, becoming louder and louder.

And, suddenly, he remembered his own muffled screaming. It was a dream he had had, just before waking up. A cloth over his mouth. A sharp pain.

John stood there in the kitchen doorway, swaying slightly, his eyes blurry.

There was screaming coming from the refrigerator.


	3. Chapter 3

John stared at the refrigerator. Refrigerators weren't supposed to make that sound, John decided. Cocking his head, he walked towards the offending icebox slowly. The screaming had quieted now, but was definitely still there.

John reached out and grabbed the door. He took a breath, trying to steady himself. The dizziness was nauseating. But the screaming continued. He could do this.

He swung open the door. The cool rush of refrigerated air brought back some of his senses. There was…nothing in the fridge. Nothing new, at least. A few cans, some leftovers, and the severed head. Nothing new at all.

Then the head looked at him.

John jerked back. He blinked. That couldn't be right. The head was severed. It couldn't look –

"Hello, John," the severed head rasped, the voice echoey and garbled. "Thank you for letting me breathe some fresh air. It's rather stuffy in here."

John blinked. So did the detached head.


	4. Chapter 4

John and the severed head stared at each other. The head was pale, its skin seemingly congealing. The eyes were filmed over, and obviously hadn't been used in a while.

John quickly shook his head. This was ridiculous. He was talking to a disembodied head.

"Dr. John Watson," the head rasped, "Sherlock's faithful sidekick. I'm sure you've—"

John slammed the refrigerator door shut. The voice still mumbled on behind the fridge door. John turned around, his mind reeling, and stumbled out of the kitchen. "Sherlock?" he called.

There was absolute silence now. John looked back at the fridge. Maybe, in his half-conscious state, he had only imagined it all. It was pretty ridiculous. A severed head talking? Impossible. You didn't even need a medical degree to know that, but it couldn't hurt.

John staggered up the stairs and into bed. Maybe things would be clearer in the morning.


	5. Chapter 5

The ceiling looked…different.

John stared up at it, his head pounding. That was probably it, of course.

The headache was playing tricks with his eyes. He sat up in bed. Bad idea. His head was really throbbing now.

John clomped down the stairs, swaggering slightly. Sherlock barely looked up from the television screen. "Morning," John muttered, scratching his head.

"Rough night?" Sherlock said, his voice clipped.

"Wow, you're a genius, Sherlock. Really brilliant," John said, his voice tense.

"Ah. Sarcasm. Very good," Sherlock said, his eyes still glued to the television set.

John shuffled towards the kitchen. In the doorway, he suddenly stopped, staring at the fridge.

"I had the strangest dream last night," he said quietly.

"Hmm. Synapses firing are hardly a cause for concern."

"No, it was different. It was so real. The head, the one in the fridge…it talked to me."

"Well, that's impossible, of course. Really, John. You're a doctor."

"I know, I know," John said, exasperated. He continued into the kitchen.

"We'll be getting another case soon, I should think," Sherlock called from the living room.

John opened the tea cabinet. "There isn't any tea. How can we have run out of tea?"

"That was all the tea?" Sherlock said.

John sighed. "What do you mean, all the tea?"

"Don't go into the downstairs closet."

John popped his head into the living room. "Sherlock…"

Sherlock spun the chair around and touched the tips of his long, pale fingers together. "So, this case. Should be interesting."

"What case?" John said plaintively.

"The one that Lestrade is just about to call about."

The phone rang.


	6. Chapter 6

The phone, laying on the end table, rang for the second time. John raised his eyebrow. "Psychic…well, that's new," he said.

Sherlock gave him a sidelong glance. "Really, John? Don't be stupid. The news has been all over the telly. Psychic…"

John shook his head and sat down in one of the old armchairs. "And I suppose you're going to tell me that you actually have a _good_ reason for using all the tea."

"Quite. I had to study the drying process of teabags when left in the trash. It could be important in determining time of death, and—"

"Phone," John said, the device ringing for a third time.

"Oh, all right." Sherlock grabbed John's cell phone and interrupted the fourth ring. "Yes. Yes, of course. I know. Straight away."

Sherlock clicked the cell phone shut and tossed it to John. "There's been a break-in. The likes of which they've never seen," he said, barely able to contain his gleeful smile. He leapt to his feet.

"You want me to come along, then?" John said, rubbing his temples. This headache…

"Of course. It's nice to have someone along who's not a completely daft."

"Thanks," John said flatly. "Just let me grab my jumper."

Sherlock started pacing energetically, a little excited hop in his step. "Yes, of course, right. Be quick about it!"

John headed upstairs, leaving his flat mate to move about the room frantically. John shook his head. He always seemed to get so excited over such crimes. As he neared his bedroom, he stumbled a bit. His head was pounding. He paused to regain his composure, then continued into his bedroom.

The beige jumper was crumbled up under the chair. As John pulled it out, the door downstairs slammed shut. John grimaced. Of course. Sherlock was quick, but it made his patience short. John pulled on the jumper.


	7. Chapter 7

John clattered down the stairs, fixing his jumper on straight. He looked around. The cluttered living room was uncharacteristically but unsurprisingly Sherlock-less. John looked around for his phone. Nowhere to be found. John sighed. He was used to this by now. Sherlock had a knack for borrowing things without his permission.

Well, he might as well catch up with him. John moved towards the door, and then suddenly stopped. He had no idea where Sherlock might have gotten to, come to think of it. He knew next to nothing about this case. Of course, this was also something John was used to.

The news was all over the telly, wasn't it? John switched on the old set, but was only greeted with harsh static, the picture going in and out in quick blips. "Bloody hell," John growled, pounding the set with his fist, to no avail.

John fell backwards onto one of the armchairs, the seat squeaking plaintively. No phone, no instructions, no idea.

"Cup of tea would be nice right about now," John muttered.

The apartment was quiet. John could almost hear the cries from last night, but they must have only been in his imagination. He suddenly jumped to his feet, clapping his hands together. "To the store, then! The Adventures of John Watson, in Search of Tea. Always a page-turner" he said, walking out the door.

He never heard the single cry that cut through the apartment's still air.


	8. Chapter 8

Earl Grey. Irish Breakfast. Chamomile.

John stared at the shelves of tea, the pounding in his head a bit quieter now. He started regretting giving up so easily. Sure, tracking Sherlock down would have been difficult. But that was life at 221b was seldom anything else. And he did so need an adventure. It made him feel more alive. Even during the off-times, the vestiges of past cases made everything seem so much more real. So much more vibrant.

John looked around. This supermarket was anything but vibrant. He scuffed his shoe on the hard tiling, leaving a smudge mark. Another set of shoes came into view. He looked up, startled.

Sherlock looked at him, his gaze critical. "Of course I would find you in the tea aisle. Such an Englishman," he said.

"What— Aren't you supposed to be at a crime scene or something?" John said.

"Ah yes, that. I took about five minutes, tops. Don't know who the thief is yet, which is rather delightful. A proper puzzle. There wasn't much left behind though. Lestrade is checking on some things, and I thought I would see how you were," Sherlock said, studying John's face.

"See how I was— Wait, how did you know I would even be here?"

"After this morning's vigorous discussion on tea, I would think the answer would be obvious."

"Yes, right."

They stood in silence for a moment. John looked back up at the tea. "So, Earl Grey or—?"

"Are you alright?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Alright? Of course I'm alright. Never been better. Just some headaches."

"But…you've seemed a bit off lately. And at crime scenes, I need someone I can trust," Sherlock said, his eyes glancing off.

John paused, pursing his lips. "Maybe that's not always the best thing, Sherlock. Maybe I've become your crutch, so to speak."

"Like your old cane, I suppose."

"Yes, like…that. I'm fine. Just a bad night's sleep."

Sherlock looked at him, straight into his eyes. "John, I do hope you're right. Because, well, you're the closest thing I have to a friend."

John looked at him, taken aback.

Sherlock grabbed some tea. "Earl Grey will do," he said.


	9. Chapter 9

John grabbed the receipt. "I'll catch up with you, if you don't mind" he said to Sherlock, his eyes drifting towards the shop window.

Sherlock nodded. "Quite alright. I have some things to attend to as it is," he said, sauntering off.

"Ah ah ah!" John said, grinning. "Give me my phone back, eh?"

Sherlock spun around on his heel. "I don't have your phone."

"But I saw you use it this morning. Come on, hand it over," John said, sighing.

Sherlock squinted his eyes. "As I said, I don't have it," he said, annoyed.

John shoved his hands into his coat pockets and stopped. He pulled out the phone. "But how did it get there?" he said to himself.

"Right…" Sherlock said. "You're perfectly fine."

The two walked out into the sunlight. "I'll see you back at the flat, then?" Sherlock said hesitantly.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Go on already," John said, shooing him away.

As Sherlock briskly walked off, John's phone started to ring. Unlisted caller. John put the cell to his ear. "Hello?"

"Dr. John Watson," a familiar voice rasped. "Sherlock's faithful sidekick. Why are you all alone?"


	10. Chapter 10

John stared straight ahead, frozen in place.

"I'm waiting, little bird. Waiting for you. It's so cold. And dark. And I'm so very, very hungry," the voice said, ending in a hiss.

John hung up the phone. No one was going to mess with him. This had to be some sort of psychological warfare.

"John," the voice continued. "I'm still here."

An icy chill went down his spine. He stared at the phone in his hand. Inexplicably, impossibly, the voice was still talking to him. The…disembodied head's voice. The disembodied head was talking to him through his cell phone, a conversation that he had just hung up on.

And yet it continued.

John shook his head. Impossible. With that, he quickly walked off towards the flat, almost sprinting, the cell phone clutched in a death grip.

"I'm so hungry…" the voice wheedled.

"Shut up!" John growled, shoving the phone deep inside his trouser pocket. A few pedestrians looked at him as he whizzed past, talking to himself.

John thought this was completely understandable. If only these strange occurrences were as well.


	11. Chapter 11

As John bolted up the stairs, the cell phone still whispering to him in the darkness of his pocket, he could hear odd noises coming from the flat. Awfully loud noises.

A sharp bang throttled John's ears as he swung open the flat door. The doorjamb's wood splintered, and John ducked, shaking.

Sherlock stared calmly at him, a gun in his hand. "You're back, finally. I need some tea."

John clenched his fists as he got to his feet, dizzy. "What the HELL do you think you're doing? And…is that my gun?" he shouted.

"Quiet now, you'll wake the neighbors," Sherlock said drolly. "And yes, it is your gun. I don't have one, so I thought I'd borrow yours. I was studying splinter patterns on wood as caused by bullets. Oh, and you're out of said bullets now."

The apartment was quiet and still as Sherlock lazily dropped the gun on the end table and went back to laying flat on the couch. John stared, astonished. But not at Sherlock's ways. Those were anything but new to him. He was shocked by the overwhelming silence. Because the voice had stopped whispering to him.

He shakily drew the phone out of his pocket. "Sherlock, I may be going mad," he said quietly.

"You? Mad? Never," Sherlock said, staring at the smiley face on the wall.

"There was a voice, on my cell. And it kept talking after I hung up. It was the voice from last night."

"What voice from last night?"

"The voice from, well, the head in the fridge."

Sherlock sat up. "John, don't be ridiculous—"

"I know, I know," John said, slumping down into one of the armchairs and tossing the phone onto the end table. "It's physically impossible. You think I don't know that?"

Sherlock looked at him intently. "Well, Lestrade finally got back to me. Took him way too long, but that's what happens when you deal with smaller minds, of course. There's a new lead on this serial burglar, and we've got to go straight away." He stood up.

"You mean _you've_ got to go. I…I think I need to have a lie down," John said, holding his head.

Sherlock looked vaguely disappointed. "But John, I need to have someone to talk to who isn't an imbecile. Come on! Adventure! Danger! You love all of that!"

John looked at Sherlock, slightly surprised. "You do quite well by yourself, you know. You like to lock me out of crime scenes anyway."

Sherlock looked down at his shoes. "Right. Well then. I'll be off, I suppose."

"Right," John said, rubbing his eyes.

Sherlock sulked out the door, turning his coat flaps up. John rolled his eyes.

"I'm so glad we're alone, John," the voice whispered, the phone laying on the end table.

Something moved inside the fridge. And then it laughed.


	12. Chapter 12

John glared at the phone. He picked it up. "Right, I'm done with you. You think you can drive me mad? Is that what you think?"

"You're the one talking to me, Dr. John Watson," the voice said smoothly.

"And who is me, hmm?" John hissed, his knuckles turning white as he clutched the phone, his face tense, worried. Scared.

"Why don't you ask me yourself?"

Something started thumping on the fridge. In the fridge. Inside the fridge.

John whirled around, his heart pounding so hard that it hurt. It hurt almost as bad as his head was starting to feel.

"Well, that's rather rude of you, Dr. John Watson. Rather rude, indeed. Leaving a guest all alone, by himself, for hours on end in a dank, dark fridge. Why would you do that, Dr. John Watson? Why would you—"

That was when John chucked the phone out of the window.

He stood there, panting. "Right," he said, straightening his jumper. "Where's my cane?"

The thumping continued from inside the fridge. John looked around the flat. He crouched by the bookcase and looked in the corner. There it was. His good, old, useless cane. Well, maybe not so useless.

Gripping the cane like a baseball bat, John slowly walked towards the fridge, his shoes barely making a sound. At least nothing louder than the now awful racket coming from the fridge.

"All right, you…head…thing. No arms, right? So no chance of fighting back," John whispered, more to himself than anyone. Or anything.

He stopped. "I'm about to attack a severed head with a cane. I must be mad."

The banging continued.

John shrugged and continued forward. "Could do worse, I suppose."


	13. Chapter 13

John tightened his grip on the cane as he shuffled forward. He took several deep breaths, hooked his shoe on the fridge handle, and swung the chrome door open. The head looked up at him. John staggered back a bit, bumping into the table, the chemical glassware clinking together. His resolve wavered as the gelatinous eyes gazed up at him, yellow and putrid.

"Tonight," the head said, his voice as cracked as his dried lips.

John shook himself and readied the cane. He paused. "Tonight what?" he demanded.

The head smiled as much as it could with degenerated muscles. "Wouldn't you like to know?" it wheedled.

John swung the cane back. "I'm warning you. I've had it with this rubbish. Either you tell me what the hell is going on, or I'll smash your head in!"

"I'm just a head, Dr. John Watson. You'd smash in all of me."

"Yeah…well…yeah!" John said, brandishing the cane.

"But Dr. John Watson, I'm not even alive," the head said condescendingly.

"Look, that's enough. I'm done with whatever mind tricks are going on here—"

"And soon, you will join me," the head simpered.

John sighed. "What?"

"Dr. John Watson, sidekick of Sherlock Holmes, you will die tonight."

"Well, that'll make two of us, won't it, you load of dead…"

John swung the cane and crushed the head. It was soft from days of decomposition. John stood there, the cane embedded in the disembodied head. Silence fell.

"Nice try," the head continued, the voice slightly muffled.

John screamed and whacked away at the head violently. Finally, he kicked the door shut and threw the cane against it. He crawled under the table. In the recesses of his mind, he knew that there had to be a logical explanation for all of this. All of this madness.

John rested his head on his knees, sitting on the dingy kitchen floor. He wrapped his arms around his head, making his own little cave. He fought back tears of confusion and pain as his head pounded out a terrible beat. He tried to block out the sound.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock slammed the door behind him as he swept into Mycroft's spacious office. He strode forward and slammed his hands on the desk. His face was stern, his eyes steely. Mycroft looked at him lazily, leaning back in his chair. "Really, Sherlock. Don't be so petulant. You could at least knock."

"I'm afraid I don't have time for courteous nothings," Sherlock replied.

"Ah, yes, your case, right? You've been talking about it all—"

"Oh, don't be stupid," Sherlock said, grimacing. "It's insulting for me to be related to you if you go blabbering about like that. What, with all your little fancy government toys, you couldn't figure it out? That my 'case' is a fake?"

"Oh. Well, it's no concern of mine, I suppose."

"Is that why you have those stupid little cameras hidden all around the flat? Oh, don't think I didn't notice."

"It was for your protection…"

"No, it was so you could keep tabs on me and the goings on in my flat. Well, good lot that's done. Someone's managed to muck about without your knowledge," Sherlock said, starting to pace furiously.

Mycroft looked honestly surprised. "But we haven't received notice of any unusual activity."

"What, no glitches, no technical interference?" Sherlock asked indignantly.

Mycroft gave him a look. "That is to be expected, Sherlock."

"And that makes for a gaping blind spot, doesn't it?"

"It's not security we're worried about, Sherlock, as you so kindly pointed out," Mycroft said calmly.

Sherlock started to pace more quickly. "Mycroft, as much as I hate to say it, I need your help. There is something going on, and I'm…concerned," he said finally.

Mycroft grinned a bit. "Oh really—"

Sherlock spun to face him. "Mycroft, don't you dare exploit this."

He shrugged. "I'm just glad to be of some help! What's the problem?"

Sherlock resumed pacing. "There's some sort of interference at the house. It's been interfering with the television set, and, I assume, your recording equipment. And, ever since that started, John's been acting peculiar. Very…different. He keeps wondering if he's going mad or not. He's very much not himself, and this worries me. You of all people should know there are only a small number of people who can really stand me, and he happens to be one of those people. And I can't have him thinking he's mad."

"Does he hear drumming in his head?" Mycroft asked.

"What? No, I don't think so. Why?"

"Nothing."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, and then continued. "It all started this morning. I was watching the telly, watching the static, really, and when John came down, he barely noticed. Kept talking about his dream. That's when I started thinking. So I went out on a dummy case, and investigated. I've come to the conclusion that John's fears may be the result of a combination of hallucinogens and suggestive cues, with the desired end result of crippling his mental abilities, or at least his will to assist me or stay at 221b."

Mycroft raised his left eyebrow. "And you found all of this out…how?"

Sherlock sighed. "That's not important! The important thing is that John is somehow being watched, and any sign of me being onto the whole game could prove dangerous!" Sherlock paused. "The signal disruptions to the television could only have been cause by the active presence of too many interfering devices. You're lot had already had your machines installed for at least a few months, and no disruption had been caused before. Couple that with John's uncharacteristic behavior and super realistic 'dreams,' and you've got strong signals and erratic, drug-induced behavior caused by orchestrated stimuli. Happy?"

"Quite," Mycroft said as Sherlock caught his breath. "What do you need me to do?"


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock walked about the office briskly, Mycroft's question lingering in the air. "One," he said, holding up at slender, pale finger. "All of your surveillance footage from last night. Glitches would indicate those times during which the system was overridden."

"Doable," Mycroft said.

"Two," Sherlock continued, holding up two fingers now. "I need a signal jammer powerful enough to override whatever it is that's interfering with the television in my flat."

"Not impossible," Mycroft said, now picking up the phone.

"Three," Sherlock said, halting in the middle of the room and looking at his brother intensely. "A handgun."

Mycroft paused. "A handgun," he said.

"Obviously. I don't want to go there unarmed," he replied.

Mycroft pursed his lips. "So you're going in, then? Don't you think that's a bit premature?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "John's in there. I'm not going to just leave him at the mercy of some two-bit psychologist-criminal."

Mycroft sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Second drawer on your left," he said, motioning to a cabinet.

As Sherlock rummaged in the drawer, Mycroft started dialing. "Whatever happened to John's gun, then? Oh, don't look like that. We know he kept it after leaving the army."

Sherlock averted his eyes. "If John had any gun, it would be unloaded."

"I find that surprising. That doesn't seem like him. Then again, having a loaded pistol around would be rather dangerous. Especially given the present…circumstances."

"It isn't like him. And it would be dangerous. That's why I was sure to…'unload' it." Sherlock finally pulled out Mycroft's handgun. "Right. Text me anything you find, right?"

"On which phone, yours or John's?"

"Mine will do, thanks," Sherlock said as he swept out the door.

Mycroft shook his head. "Ah, yes," he said into the phone. "Could you please send me all the video in the Baker file? Yes, that's right. The one on Sherlock Holmes."


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock's feet made little ripples in the ever-present puddles of London pavements as he walked down the street. His coat flapped lightly in the breeze, and his breath left a trail of smoke swirling behind him in the brisk air. The sun was beginning its long descent, and the air was getting colder, as cold as the steel of the handgun he grasped in his pocket.

He stopped and hailed a cab. "Well then," he muttered as the first available one flew past him. He checked his watch. He didn't have time for this.

Sherlock stepped out into the middle of the street, a few meters away from an oncoming cab. It screeched to a halt, the driver yelling various obscenities at the apparent madman. The madman opened the cab door, got in, and calmly said, "221b Baker Street."

Halfway across town, John was still crouched beneath the table, his head spinning, his hands shaking. This wasn't normal. He'd been in Afghanistan; he had seen the terrible things that violence wrought. He had had to hold a man's insides in as his eyes glassed over, his abdomen bloody and scorched by a roadside bomb. He had felt the surge of adrenaline as men screamed in battle, screamed in anger, screamed in pain. And through it all, he had kept his hands steady. His scalpel true.

And now, in London town, huddled under a kitchen table in an ordinary flat, all of that stalwartness was gone.

The fridge had fallen silent. John looked around. It was getting late. And, according to the impossible talking head, he was going to die that night.

He got to his feet unsteadily, his head pounding. Why was this happening? Why him? What had he done? Well, what had he done recently?

He clenched his hands into fists, spun around, and wrenched the door open. The head, a little worse for wear, looked up at him with what was left of his eyes. "What do you want?" John said.

"Finally, a competent question," it croaked. It smiled.


	17. Chapter 17

"Right here," Sherlock said as the cab approached 221b. He was halfway out the door before the vehicle screeched to a stop. The cabbie, muttering something about those crack-dealing meth-heads, sped off, leaving Sherlock staring up at the flat's windows.

This part of London was unusually quiet for late afternoon. The air was bitingly cold as Sherlock walked towards the flat, still looking at the windows, his head cocked, his eyes narrowed. There weren't any obviously abnormal sounds coming from the flat above. Nothing to cause alarm.

Sherlock was carefully controlling his facial expression, even more so than usual. If this intruder had been able to invade his home without alerting his brother, he was certainly able to keep an eye on the interior as well as the exterior of the flat. Which meant that he was being watched.

Sherlock tightened his grip on the concealed weapon in his pocket as he casually walked towards the door of the building. As he passed under the living room window, his foot crunched down on something. He stopped. A cell phone. John's cell phone. Sherlock looked up at the open window and quickly picked up the phone. There seemed to be a voice coming from the crushed device, but the audio was tinny and warped, like a talking children's toy that had nearly dead batteries.

Sherlock continued forward, slipping the plastic chunk into his free pocket. Just as he reached the door, his own cell phone started to ring. He held the working phone to his ear. "What did you find?" he demanded.

Sherlock could almost hear Mycroft give him a look on the other end of the line. "We've found something, yes," Mycroft said. "And, trust me, you don't want to go in there."


	18. Chapter 18

"So what is it then, eh?" John demanded, steadying himself against the kitchen counter.

The head blinked slowly, the mashed lids barely covering its sickening eyes. "I want you to do something for me," it said.

"Well, get on with it, then," John said, grimacing. "What, you want me to bring you Sherlock Holmes? I'm the bait, right? Oh, great, that's how it _always_ is, you know."

"I—" the head started.

John began walking around the kitchen, swaying every now and then. "No, you listen to me," he said. "I'm tired of all this nonsense. You'd think 'masterminds' like yourself would come up with something new!"

The head looked around awkwardly. "But if I could just—"

John spun around and pointed at the head. "Shut it, you useless bowling-ball. I'm fed up with this. You are in my home, _my home_, and you expect me to do whatever it is you want? I'm a bloody soldier, you twat!"

The adrenaline was now certainly pumping in his favor. John smiled a little. "Who's in control now, hmm? So, what, you want me to lure Sherlock here, is that right? Or someplace else? Maybe an abandoned warehouse? Keep it classy. The more predictable, the better." He laughed.

The head was frowning now. "If I could just get a word in here—"

"Yeah? What could you possibly have to say to me, eh?" John stood there, his arms folded, blinking at the head.

It rolled its eyes. "Finally, you pompous idiot. You've been poisoned. And you will die tonight unless I give you the antidote. And I will only give you the antidote if you kill Sherlock Holmes for me."

John's face fell. "Ah," he said, rubbing his neck with one of his shaking hands. "That's…that's new."


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock stood there, clutching the phone, his face composed. "And why wouldn't I want to go in there, Mycroft? Don't be so dramatic," he said tersely.

Sherlock could hear his brothers shuffling around some papers. "Well, you see…"

"On with it, what have you got?"

Mycroft cleared his through uncomfortably. "Nothing."

"What?"

"We've got nothing. There were a few glitches, but we couldn't backtrack anything. The signal didn't have any signature whatsoever. It's odd, and frankly a bit disconcerting."

Sherlock's lips were thin. "But _when_ were the glitches," he said. Under his breath, he muttered, "If you're the British government, no wonder we—"

"Ah, yes. Let's see. Early this morning…mid-morning…and for quite a while now."

"What do you mean 'quite a while now'?"

"I mean that it's still going on," Mycroft said.

Sherlock started tapping his foot. "And _why_ don't you want me going in there again? John's in there, and he's in danger _right now_, and you—"

"Sherlock, whoever this is, they have access to some rather advanced technology and are able to remain almost completely invisible. Don't you think that going in without enough information is setting yourself up to get killed?"

"What do you mean 'almost' invisible?"

Mycroft sighed. "There was a…shadow right before one of the first glitches. This coincides with your drug administration theory."

"It's not a theory if it's true."

"Sherlock, don't be difficult."

"Sorry," Sherlock said bitingly, "I just get a little tense _when my best friend is in mortal danger_."

Mycroft paused. "Quite right," he said. "That aside, I highly advise you to assess this situation more before going in there. Who knows what effect the drug is having on John? Hallucinations, yes, but to what extent? And how influential would these be?"

Sherlock thought of the lump of fragmented cellular phone in his pocket. "I think I know of something that might shed a little light on the situation," he said.


	20. Chapter 20

Watson's brow was furrowed. "You want me to kill Sherlock Holmes," he said.

"Always thought you were just a well-trained parrot," the head said.

Watson shook his head. "This is mad."

"You should be talking."

Watson blinked his eyes, trying to make the blurriness less blurry. He held his shaking hands in front of his face, concentrating on making the fingers come into focus. That sharp pain he thought he had dreamt must have been when the poison was administered. And all of this…wait.

John looked up at the head. The head looked back at him.

"You're not real," he said hoarsely.

"A parrot _and_ a broken record. Brilliant."

"No no no, this isn't real, any of this. I'm…hallucinating. Which makes sense now."

The head looked nervous now. "But…then…how am I talking to you, hmm? You don't want me to talk, but I do. Isn't there something about that—"

John was already staggering towards the head.

The head was frantically searching the kitchen for something to distract the oncoming doctor with. "Um, scientific medical stuff, yeah, that lot, don't you want to know—"

John grasped the head with his hands, the skin giving away all too easily, cold and clammy and dead. He lifted it up, his legs shaking now with uncontrollable tremors as the poison worked its way further through his system. As he held the head at arms' length, something clattered onto one of the refrigerator's metal shelves.

Some sort of speaker.

"Bugger…" came the muttered voice of the head. From the speaker.

John swayed violently, the head dropping onto the tiled floor with a squish. He picked up the speaker, barely holding onto it. It was slippery and cold and terribly difficult to keep from dropping.

"See," John gasped. "You're not real."


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock quickly strode through the morgue's doors, sweeping past a startled Molly Hooper. "Sherlock! Well, this is a surprise," she said, smoothing her skirt self-consciously.

Sherlock held up the phone. "Needed a place to work in peace," he said coldly.

Molly smiled a little. "Oh, well, in that case, you can join me! I was just—"

Sherlock was already pushing her out the door. "In peace," he repeated.

Molly was still stammering protests as the morgue's doors swung shut. Sherlock quickly sat on one of the stools and placed the cellular lump on one of the metal tables, next to a dead man's bicep. Sherlock meticulously started taking apart the wrecked clump, setting aside bits of plastic as he made his way to the heart of the matter, dissecting it piece by piece.

Finally, all that remained were the battery, the memory card, and, as Sherlock had hoped, a foreign object. A stimulus. A way to make John crack.

A small, nasty, interfering audio speaker.

Sherlock grabbed a pair of forceps and picked the little thing up. His eyes narrowed. It appeared that the speaker was also, in fact, an audio bug. Two-way audio exchange. Fortunately, it had been damaged enough to impair any more relays. At least, that was what he hoped.

The thing was, a device this small couldn't interfere with the television signals. It really wasn't that powerful. Which could only mean that there was another audio plant. One large enough…

"Oh," Sherlock said. "Of course."

He swept out of the morgue as quickly as he had arrived, leaving a startled Molly in his wake. He trudged down the hallways of the hospital, gripping the audio bug in his hand.

Something as small as this bug could easily relay information. But a bug large enough to disrupt signals would be entirely too complicated to implement at long range. The amount of power that would take with this level of technology was just too much. Which meant that whoever it was that was controlling all of this was nearby.

Perhaps even in 221b Baker Street.


	22. Chapter 22

John slumped to the floor, his head reeling now with the effects of the toxin. The other head was lying on the floor, very lopsided now and, more importantly, no longer moving. The hallucinatory spell was broken. But who was responsible for all of this in the first place? Certainly not the head.

John was still holding the slimy speaker in his trembling hands. The voice was silent now. But, for once, John didn't want this madman to be so quiet.

"I know you can hear me," John rasped, his voice coarse and soft and pained. "And I know you did this…to…me."

He coughed. He could barely see through the increasingly blinding pain in his head. He shook his head, but this only made the blood in his head pump out a dark drumbeat.

"I'm sure you've figured this out…by now, but I'm going to tell you anyway. And only this once," he said slowly, evenly, the effort to speak coherently becoming more and more difficult to muster.

The speaker crackled. "I'm listening," it said, the voice as dead as the head beside John.

John took a deep breath. "I will never, ever betray Sherlock Holmes."

The speaker was silent.

"And if that means dying, so be it. But I know that wherever you are, whatever dingy room you have yourself holed up in, he will find you. Sherlock Holmes is one of the greatest men I have ever known, and certainly one of the best detectives. He has solved hundreds of murder cases without batting an eyelid. And if he has to solve my…murder, well, he'll find you. And I don't know what he will do then. But I'd pity you."

The speaker finally crackled to life again. "Doctor John Watson, always saving others' lives. I think you overestimate your steadfastness in the face of death. You see, I've been watching you. You appear steady and brave, but look at how easily I've reduced you to a whimpering, quivering lump of a man."

John slowly and determinedly shook his head.

"You're wrong."


	23. Chapter 23

Sherlock barreled down the pavement, the sound chip still clutched in his hand. Whoever was behind this had crossed one too many lines. He was hurting his friend, in his own flat, and this, my dear reader, was where he had made his mistake.

He had made it personal.

Sherlock banged open the door of the flat building on Baker Street, the rush of warm air doing nothing to settle his nerves. As he passed Mrs. Hudson's door, she poked her head out, smiling cheerfully.

"Oh Sherlock," she chirped. "I was just putting the kettle on for a friend. Would you fancy a cuppa?"

"Not right now, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said tersely. "Bit busy at the moment."

"Well, alright, dear. But don't expect me to be at your beck-and-call when you do want one," she muttered as she shut her door.

Sherlock flew up the stairs three at a time, his adrenaline levels starting to shoot up. That familiar rush was coming back, and he couldn't help but smile.

He skidded to a stop in front of his flat's door. He readied himself. He got a good grip on the handgun. Hopefully, he wouldn't have to use it. Blunt force was more his style, but sometimes, if John was indeed in immediate danger, he would be forced to take the simpler and cruder way.

But hopefully it wouldn't come to that. And hopefully John was all right behind that door.

Sherlock slipped his coat and scarf off, tossing them to the side. He still held the gun in his hand. He breathed in sharply and then burst through the door.

There, in the middle of the living room, John was barely standing, his gun held in his shaking hands, pointed directly at Sherlock Holmes.


	24. Chapter 24

Sherlock looked calmly at the gun in John's unsteady hands. "Well, this is a bit of a surprise."

"To me too," John said, almost inaudibly.

Sherlock shut the door with his foot slowly, never taking his eyes off of the gun. "What is this all about, John? Is your life really that _empty_?"

John nodded very slightly. "About as _empty _as you made it," he said.

Their eyes locked in a mutual understanding.

Sherlock traipsed forward casually as John kept the gun aimed at him. John cleared his throat, his breathing haggard and difficult. "I've got to do this, Sherlock. There's something going on. I'm dying."

"Of course you're dying, John. What is it? Poison?"

"Basically. And, well, if I kill you, I'll live," John said.

"Hmm. Interesting. Not very much like you, is it?" Sherlock replied, starting to pace.

"No, not really."

"Then go ahead," Sherlock said, stopping mid-pace and turning around to face John.

"Are you sure that I'm as empty as you think I am?" John asked quickly, or as quickly as he could manage.

Sherlock's icy blue eyes were unwavering and steady. "Absolutely," he said.

John grimaced as his finger tightened on the trigger.

"Oh, all right, cut it out," the speaker interrupted. "What do you think I am? An idiot?"

"Yes, actually," Sherlock said.

The speaker crackled in silence for a moment. "I know the gun is empty. I've been watching you all day."

"Worth a shot," John said, shrugging and dropping the gun on the end table.

"Actually, it's not worth that, at all," Sherlock corrected. "No bullets."


	25. Chapter 25

"Well, there goes one of the options," John said, smiling weakly.

He suddenly swayed violently, his knees buckling underneath him. Sherlock caught one of John's arms, easing him down to the floor gently. He turned to face the speaker, which was lying haphazardly on the floor near the kitchen. His look was scathing. John could barely keep his eyes open.

Sherlock got up and walked straight towards the speaker. He grabbled the cold, clammy mechanical device. "Now, you'd better cooperate with me. Do you understand?" Sherlock hissed.

"I understand, but that doesn't mean—"

"Trust me, if I had the time, I could easily concoct an antidote for whatever toxin you've injected, but I have neither the leisure of an hour nor the patience of a saint. You will tell me what it is you used, exactly, and I hand you over to the authorities quietly."

The speaker was silent. Then, quietly at first, the man started to laugh. The sound grew louder and louder. John winced on the floor in pain.

Sherlock's face went pale. He threw the speaker on an armchair, pushed up his sleeves, and crouched down beside John, who was curled up in agony.

"John, listen to me," Sherlock whispered, gripping his friend's shoulder. "I'm going to need you to do something for me. And I'm going to need you to trust me. Can you manage to fight through this for just a minute?"

John nodded weakly, his forehead burning up.

Sherlock put Mycroft's handgun into John's shaking hands. "John, look at me," Sherlock said firmly. John barely opened his eyes. "John, you've got to do this. You've got to pull the trigger. If I'm dead, he'll give you the antidote. Do you understand?"

"I…I'm not going to…" John struggled to say.

"John, this isn't the time to be a hero. Don't be an idiot," Sherlock said, his voice quavering a little. If John didn't know better, he'd think that Sherlock was afraid.

"And you're…an…imbecile…" John said. He laughed, but the laughing turned into painful coughing.

"John, if you trust me, pull the trigger," Sherlock said.

"Never," John replied.

"John, pull the trigger," Sherlock said, loudly.

"I…will…not…"

"JOHN, PULL THE BLASTED TRIGGER!" Sherlock roared.

A shot rang out.


	26. Chapter 26

John's eyes widened in horror as Sherlock slumped to the floor. The gun was smoking in his hand. "I—" he gasped.

The speaker giggled.

Sherlock lied there in a steadily growing pool of blood.

"I—" John said again, the words catching in his throat.

The speaker laughed.

"I can't—"

John's eyes were burning. He was lying on the floor, his body in torture, his head on fire, staring straight into Sherlock's glassy blue eyes. He felt sick.

The speaker was guffawing in the doorway, but all John could think about was lying right in front of him.

Sherlock Holmes was dead. And he, John Watson, his faithful sidekick, had killed him.

John's ears were ringing, but he could still hear the door slamming open. Mycroft stormed in, his face almost white. He stood there, his feet seemingly rooted to the ground. He stared at Sherlock's body. The blood. The gun.

His face was contorted in a mixture of fury and grief. He barreled forward and grabbed John by the collar. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?" he screamed into a semi-conscious John's face.

"I can't breathe—" John stammered.

Mycroft threw John to the side, where he landed in a pitiful heap by the speaker. The distraught brother stooped over Sherlock. John's entire world was shaking. He dragged himself towards the speaker.

"The antidote…" he whispered.

There was silence.

Mycroft was on the phone with the hospital, his voice shaky and strained.

"Say something…" John gasped.

The speaker started to laugh again. "Oh, John Watson, you are all too gullible. Do you think I'd personally give you the antidote? Don't be daft."

John was sliding in and out of consciousness now. Colors and lights and darkness were flowing in and out of his ears and mind.

"Keep your friends close, John Watson. You may come to depend on them."

The speaker went completely silent, and John could just barely recognize that that was it. No more cryptic messages from the disembodied voice.

He could barely make out the slumped silhouette of Sherlock as his eyes blurred over. As he slid into the darkness of unconsciousness, he thought he could see his friend's face.

And then there was only sleep.


	27. Chapter 27

Mycroft quickly hung up the phone as John slid out of consciousness. There was a moment of silence. He turned to his brother's body and whispered, "We're all clear."

Sherlock was silent. "I said we're all clear," Mycroft hissed.

Sherlock stirred. "Then why are you whispering?" he muttered. He opened his eyes and looked condescendingly at his brother.

Mycroft reached down and help his brother to his feet. "A good job on the blood, by the way. You almost had me going there. Almost," he said.

Sherlock looked down and lifted his shirt. The tiny plastic bags of fake blood were all but empty now. "Yes, well, I'm just glad John never went into the closet over there. He'd have thought I was just doing another blood-based experiment."

"Another…? Never mind," Mycroft said, pursing his lips. "I'll have my gun back now."

"Of course—" Sherlock said, turning around towards John. He stopped. "John?" he said.

Mycroft's brow was furrowed. "Is he—?"

Sherlock bent down and checked his friend's pulse. "Dead? Not quite."

"Was it the shock? They were only blanks, but I'm sure that he thought they were real."

"No, I'm afraid it's this toxin. What was it that the speaker said again? Something about a friend?"

"I have no idea. I was too busy phoning surveillance."

"Of course you were. It must be so limiting, only being able to focus on one thing at a time."

"Now, really…"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Sherlock said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "There's no time for this bickering, anyhow. John's worsening quickly. If we don't find that antidote soon, well…"

"Couldn't we take him to hospital?"

But Sherlock was already scouring the place. "There must be something here! Keeping friends close…it must be nearby, a friend, well, obviously that's me, but I don't happen to have any antidotes hanging around, of course, not one I could use for this, now let's see."

Mycroft watched as his brother frantically turned the place inside out. Some footsteps came from behind. Mycroft turned to see an older woman standing in the doorway with a tray with a teapot on it.

Sherlock spun around and froze. He sighed, laughing softly to himself. "Of course," he said gently. "Mrs. Hudson. Our friend close by."

"Hello, dear, I brought you some—" she said, then shrieked as she saw John's body lying on the floor.

"Oh, it's quite alright—" Mycroft started to say.

But Mrs. Hudson had already let the tray slip from her fingertips. Everything seemed to slow down for Sherlock. He lunged forward, towards the falling teapot. A close friend who had been suggested by a 'friend' to bring them something liquid?

Something that could, quite possibly, contain an antidote?

Mrs. Hudson had finished shrieking. Mycroft was staring at his brother. John was still passed out. And Sherlock was lying on the floor, stretched out, holding the teapot, intact, in his hands.

"Thank you very much for the tea, Mrs. Hudson. You're a life-saver," he gasped.


	28. Chapter 28

Sherlock got up carefully, still clutching the teapot. Mrs. Hudson was covering her mouth with her hands as she stared at John's still body, her eyes round. Mycroft patted her on the shoulder. "Thank you very much for the tea. Why don't you go downstairs and talk to the man at the door? I'm sure he'd be happy to talk to you about all this."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft quizzically. Mycroft smirked. "What, you didn't think I would come here alone, did you? With a would-be murderer in the house?"

Sherlock nodded. "So you figured that out too."

"Murderer?" Mrs. Hudson said faintly.

"I think I'd better take you downstairs myself," Mycroft said, guiding the landlady towards the stairs. Sherlock looked down at the teapot, then at the retreating back of Mrs. Hudson.

"Hold on," he said suddenly.

Mrs. Hudson turned around, her face white.

Sherlock held up a finger. "Just…wait," he said.

He crouched down beside John, tucked his hand underneath his friend's head, and put the teapot spout to his lips. Slowly, he tipped the teapot. "This had better work, John, or I'm going to hold you personally responsible," he muttered.

He stopped pouring the tea and sat back on his heels, carefully setting the teapot down on the floor. He watched John with bated breath, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.

"Wake up, John," he begged softly.

Mrs. Hudson and his brother were forgotten. All that he could look at was his pale, sickly friend.

"Dear, isn't—" Mrs. Hudson started to say.

Mycroft quickly shushed her.

"But there's a doctor downstairs!" she whispered.

Sherlock quickly checked John's pulse. "It's…I think he's coming out of it…" he said, more to himself than to the two awkwardly standing people behind him.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "John, if you wake up, I'll get the milk from now on," he sighed.

Suddenly, John started coughing. Sherlock's eyes flew open. John was looking at him, dazed. "Not bloody likely," he rasped.

Sherlock smiled unconsciously, slapping his friend's shoulder happily. John winced.

Mycroft grinned faintly. "Good. Now, Mrs. Hudson…"

Sherlock leapt to his feet and turned towards the pair. John rolled his eyes. He had just had a near-death experience, and Sherlock was already distracted with something else.

"Now, Mrs. Hudson, I do believe you said something about a 'friend' downstairs?" Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows.


	29. Chapter 29

Mrs. Hudson looked at John, then at Sherlock. "Oh! Yes, dear, I have a friend visiting. Well, I say friend, but I only met him this morning. Said he was doing a bit of wiring up here, and wanted a break. We got to chatting, and he turned out to be a lovely man, so I invited him to a cup of tea! He said that he had some work to do, anyway, and he said he felt so comfortable there, and anyplace was as good as any other."

Sherlock looked at her, slightly perturbed. "You allowed a stranger to stay in your flat for the whole day?" he asked incredulously.

She raised an eyebrow. "Now, Sherlock, he was a very nice man. He asked about you too, said that when he was working in your flat, he happened upon some unusual things. Now, I've told you time and time again, you can't have hazardous chemicals or any sort of deceased thing in this flat—!"

"Yes, yes, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said. "So you always say. But this man—when did he arrive?"

"Early this morning, I think."

"And he's still here?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"The building is on lockdown, Sherlock," Mycroft added.

Sherlock nodded briskly. "Right," he said, walking out the door.

Mrs. Hudson looked back at John. "What's going on?" she asked him.

John got up, his legs still a little shaky.

Sherlock popped back in. "We have to see a man about a head," he said. "Coming John?"

John wobbled towards the door, his hands clenched into fists. "Of course," he said darkly.

"I'd better tag along as well, I warrant," Mycroft said.

As the three headed towards the staircase, Mycroft grabbed his umbrella, John tightened his fists, and Sherlock retrieved his scarf.

And as they made their way down the stairs, Mrs. Hudson stood on the landing, looking rather shocked and entirely confused. It looked as though they were ready for a fight. She sighed and went back into Sherlock's flat. "Boys will be boys," she said to herself.


	30. Chapter 30

Sherlock slammed open the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat. A thin-faced man jerked his head up, clutching a laptop to his chest. His eyes were wide, fearful. He knew this meant trouble.

Sherlock strode forward and pulled the man up by his collar, the laptop clattering to the floor. "Hi," Sherlock said.

The man smiled weakly. Despite the man's appearance, there was an unmistakable glimmer of malice in his eyes. Sherlock grimaced.

John tapped him on the shoulder. Sherlock turned and looked at his friend. "Let me talk to him," John said quietly.

Sherlock looked at John, who was still slightly unstable on his feet, as well as in his head, he warranted. He let go of the man's collar and started to move away. Before he knew it, John had punched the face of the fellow, who reeled backwards, tumbling to the floor, blood gushing from his nose.

John stood there, his fists still clenched, gasping for breath. His face was almost white.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Well, that was a bit rash," he said. John gave him a cold look. "Let's ask him a few questions before you completely incapacitate him, hmm?"

The man looked up at the pair of them. "You're crazy, the lot of you!" he said.

"Who are you and why are you trying to kill us?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"It's a simple question, really. But if you need some time to think, I'm sure that John here would happily keep you company…"

John cracked his knuckles.

The man looked genuinely frightened. His voice was tight. "If I tell you, he'll kill her," he whispered.

"Kill who?"


	31. Chapter 31

"Kill who?" Sherlock repeated. The malevolence in the man's eyes had vanished, only to be replaced with fear.

"I can't tell you. He's put cameras everywhere."

Sherlock and John exchanged glances. Sherlock sighed. "Mycroft, all the surveillance in this house is from either you or our friend here?"

"Yes," Mycroft called from the hall.

Sherlock smiled blandly. "See, it's a safe place here. Aside from John."

The man stared up at them. "Those were your cameras? What kind of people—"

"Kill who?" Sherlock interrupted.

The man looked up at him, his eyes wide. "Molly," he said.

John and Sherlock looked at each other. "Molly Hooper? From St. Bart's?" John asked incredulously.

The man shifted. "Yeah, I work there in toxicology department, and I'm, kind of, you know, into her."

Sherlock sighed. "Love or money. Always one of the two. Love, is it?"

The man actually looked embarrassed. "Or something. Look, don't take it personally, man," he said, looking at John, "I had to poison you. Of course," he now looked at Sherlock, "if everything was supposed to work out as it was planned…you'd be dead."

"Looks like things didn't quite work out like you wanted them to," Sherlock said coldly.

John scratched his head. "Wait a minute. Who are you?"

"Preston Willis," Preston Willis said.

"Toxicology?"

"Poisons and antidotes are my specialty."

"And the tea…?"

Preston moved self-consciously. "That was supposed to come after Mr. Holmes was…taken care of. There's an antidote in it. I slipped it into the teapot right before I insisted that Mrs. Hudson bring it up."

"How kind of you," Sherlock said sarcastically. "Well, that about wraps it up, don't you think, John?"

John was looking at Preston, his brow furrowed. "But…you're not dead," he said, pointing at Sherock.

"Right," Sherlock replied.

"And Molly's in danger of being killed if you aren't dead."

"Right."

"So, if whoever this is that's running all of this finds out that you're alive, doesn't that pose a problem for Molly?"

"Right. Well, I'd assume that the terms of the agreement were that you would administer the poison, am I correct?" Sherlock said, turning to Preston.

"I guess…" Preston said.

"And you did that. You administered that poison. You kept your end of the bargain."

"Because criminal masterminds are known for keeping their end of the bargain," John muttered.

Preston sat still, his eyes suddenly vacant. John suddenly noticed an earpiece in the man's ear. He nudged Sherlock, who nodded slightly.

"I'm afraid that Molly isn't the one who's going to die because of my failure," Preston said woodenly. "I am to die in her place."

"Sherlock," John said quickly.

Preston had a capsule of some sort and was moving to take it. With a whack an umbrella pinned Preston's arm to the ground. Sherlock and John looked behind them. Mycroft was holding his umbrella calmly, a serene smile on his face. "I'll take it from here," he said.

Sherlock deftly pulled the earpiece from Preston's ear as Mycroft, assisted by another government agent, escorted the man from the room, Anthea holding the door open with her back, texting furiously. Barely looking up, she followed Mycroft's group into the hall and out of sight.

Sherlock held the earpiece to his own ear. There was some rustling on the other end, and then the line went dead. Sherlock shrugged and dropped the device, crushing under his heel. No more listening in.

John and Sherlock stood in Mrs. Hudson's empty parlor in silence for a moment.

"Thanks for saving my life," John said.

"Thanks for trying to kill me and failing," Sherlock replied.

John turned slightly red around the ears. "I was…a little out of it. Also you were shouting at me. It was extremely overwhelming!"

Sherlock smiled a little. "It's alright, John. The gun was filled with blanks. Of course, you probably would have guessed that by now."

"Well, I am a good shot, even if I was a bit doped up."

Sherlock nodded. "So…we've got some nice speaker systems here. I'm sure that man won't miss them in jail."

"But what about the mastermind behind all of this?" John said, surprised.

"Ah, Mycroft can take care of that. I think that he can handle something like that. Anyway, I'm sure he's going to turn up sooner or later."

John looked at his friend curiously. "You think it's Moriarty again, don't you?"

Sherlock didn't look at him. "It seems the name keeps popping up," he said, his voice carefully even.

"Any luck with putting a face to the name?" John asked.

Sherlock was silent, his nose burrowed in his scarf.

John clapped his hands, seeing that the conversation had reached a dead end. "Well! This speaker system then!"

* * *

><p>Anderson let himself plop down on the armchair, switching on the telly to the Discovery Channel. As he settled down for a nice, relaxing evening at home, he couldn't help but hear an eerie whispering coming from the window.<p>

Anderson slowly got up. "What the hell…"

"We know what you've done," said a voice in falsetto. "Everything you've done. All from your shoelaces!"

"Really, John," interjected another voice. "That's hardly my process."

Anderson's face turned red. "Sherlock…" he muttered.

There was some giggling, and then there was static.

* * *

><p>AN: Done! :D What did you guys think? I'm going to do a short Doctor Who one next!


End file.
